


The Gang Has a Christmas Bash

by WaldosAkimbo



Category: It's Always Sunny in Philadelphia
Genre: M/M, Santa Con, abusing the Salvation Army
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-18
Updated: 2018-12-18
Packaged: 2019-09-21 14:47:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,184
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17045678
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WaldosAkimbo/pseuds/WaldosAkimbo
Summary: Dennis is being grouchy and Mac decides to cheer him up in time for the holidays with a little Santa-themed pub crawl. They just gotta hand out the flyers and it's golden!





	The Gang Has a Christmas Bash

 

_12 pm – On a Sunday_

_Philadelphia, PA_

 

“Santa Con.”

“What?”

Mac taps the bar, his eyes lighting up in a way they haven't in such a long time. He looks younger. He looks stupid and Dennis almost says so, but Mac pushes forward anyways.

“Yeah! Santa Con. They do that shit up in New York.”

“So?” Dennis asks, but Dee's already stepped up to the plate.

“No, yeah, isn't that a pub crawl?” she asks, and almost squeezes Dennis's arm in her excitement. “Yeah! Oh man, guys. We could totally pull that off. Get a bunch of Santa-drunks in here? I mean, way better than the sad sacks of shit we're gonna have….”

Dee makes a vague gesture to the currently deserted bar. Even their miserable regulars hadn't come in for a _while_. It was weird to think that Salty Walt or Crusty Craig had, like, families to get home to. Jukebox Jim? The handlebar mustache guy?

No. Mac didn't know any of the regular people's names, even if he was supposed to be checking their IDs. Charlie helped him come up with the names and they stuck. Maybe Dee knew, from serving them, but he'd bank his left testicle that she didn't.

“Bunch of Christmas orphans all hopped up on nostalgia and joy and eggnog and shit.”

“Okay,” Dennis says slowly, flicking away a piece of crumb across the bar. “Fine. If it means Paddy’s Pub is at the end of said bar crawl? Sure, I can see that working for us.”

“Don’t we need, like, a city permit or something?” Dee asks.

“No, man, we’ll do it grass roots style. Yeah,” says Dennis, nodding, giving a little shrug. A little _it’s all okay_ gesture. “Cause, see, that’s how you get these things off the ground.”

“Grass roots.”

“Grass roots,” Dennis repeats. “Grass roots Santas, even.”

“Ooo, yeah,” Mac says slowly, squinting his eyes shut. “But then we gotta have a bunch of people dressed up like Santa Clause and shit.”

“Uh, yeah?” Dennis cranes his neck. How does this keep happening? Mac comes up with an idea, a really solid idea this time, too, and just shoots it right out of the sky before it can land. “Yes. Of course there are? This was your idea, Mac, wh--”

“ _Charlie_.”

Dennis stands straight up. He looks down his nose, takes a deep breath and purveys the scene in front of him, clearly ready to pass judgement. His fingertips are white where he spreads them across the bar. They’re thin things. Manicured nails, a little knick on his knuckle that he bitched about relentlessly when there was nothing to do but bitch about the tiniest things. The whole reason for even brainstorming something, _anything_ as a means of distraction could be attributed to that tiny, inconsequential imperfection on Dennis Reynolds’ knuckle.

Mac stares at Den’s knuckles instead of his face.

Finally, after a pulse of his jawline and counting to himself, Dennis closes his eyes and calmly asked, “What?”

Not that it was anybody’s business, because it was never going to be anybody’s business so help him _God_ , but Dennis has been quietly and discreetly seeing someone that some people _might_ classify as a therapist. He wouldn’t. Oh no. No. Dennis Reynolds does not pay anybody to psychoanalyze his thoughts. Maladaptive daydreaming and concerning desires that do not fit at all in his firmly outlined guidelines from his encounters with previous individuals that he finds through Craigslist, (he is not ashamed of this. He can do whatever he damn well pleases in the confines of his room, thank you) are all Dennis’ concerns. Concerns that he almost, for lack of a better term, needs _help_. But less Help-help, more guiding assistance. With someone like his Not-Therapist.

No, not even a shaky and occasionally tenuous grasp on reality that was desperate to come in and fill any and all voids of a goddamn _great_ specimen of a brain could convince him to see an actual, certified, capital T Therapist. No. Never. Ignore titles. Ignore degrees. Ignore adamant statements. Ignore plaques on the wall, certifications, and the word “doctor” in the man’s name, or what have you. Dennis was getting those thoughts, those concerns, those issues under control. With an iron fist. With the fist of a Golden God! With—!

Anyways, no. No, Dennis has been seeing more of a “life coach” type guy, which is far more attractive a statement than seeing a therapist. Successful people have a life coach. Dennis is a successful person with a life coach who he can go to with his “concerns” and talk about his “feelings” and hunt down any sense of calm he can find and Gary, the Not-therapist, okay, even if that is exactly what he was listed under in the ad in the first place, okay, but Gary is maybe... _maybe_ he is helping with some of these previously stated...issues. Concerns. Anger...problems.

So, thank goddamn Gary for the fact that Dennis is not actively striking Mac’s goddamn face.

Thank.

Gary.

Dennis. He flattens his hands. He pauses. He studies the somewhat bewildering face that Mac makes as he says the name of their second best friend.

And janitor.

Their little DirtGrub.

“We’ve totally had other Christmas events before without him freaking out,” says Dee, illuminating the simple truth that Dennis was about to say in roughly the same tone and word choice and all that.

“We have,” says Dennis.

“Yeah, okay,” says Mac, putting his forehead to the bar top. Dennis has an urge to run his fingers through the recently washed and temptingly fluffy hair atop Mac’s head. He clenches his fist instead and lifts his chin just as Mac stands up to face them. “I know. I’m just saying, if we get a crowd of people dressed as Santa with Christmas music playing, I mean...you’re into that psychiatry bullshit. Wouldn’t that be, like, grounds for, I dunno, a relapse or something?”

The twins regard each other in tight-lipped, raised eyebrow contemplation. They hum.

“Relapse is a potential, a sort’ve—”

“PTSD situation,” Dee finishes.

“Right.”

“Or.”

“Or?” Dennis asks.

“Or, think of it like this.” She gently slaps his arm, the two of them enjoying a brief moment of sibling amical synchronicity. “Immersion therapy.”

 “Oh, that could work,” Dennis says and points at Mac for confirmation. “Some CBT.”

“Weed oil?” Mac asks, squinting.

“Cognitive Behavioral Therapy,” Dennis corrects gently.

Dennis sinks into a comfortable register, his voice low and husky and happy, feeling at ease on a subject he thinks he knew intimately. Not from first-hand experience or anything. Gary broached the subject a few times and, okay, Gary? Buddy. Not there for therapy. Life Coach.

“See, Mac, CBT takes on a more goal-oriented approach.”

“Hands on,” Dee offers, pushing her mouth together in equal parts contemplation and contempt.

“Right. Hands on. Setting up little goals--”

“It’s behavioral, Mac.”

“Oh my god, yes. Yes, I’m explaining it, Dee!”

“Well, not correctly!”

“Yes, correctly, if you’d just shut up and let me!”

“Oh my god.” Dee practically growls, dropping her shoulders down, her head back, just bellowing at the ceiling. “You’re taking forever, Dennis. Just say it already!”

“I _am_ saying! Shut up, Dee!”

“Yeah, shut up, Dee,” Mac says quietly with a wave. “Den, you were saying?”

“ _Thank you_ , Mac,” Dennis says pointedly, bowing his head a little in Mac’s direction.

“You two are the worst,” Dee practically hisses, sneering at them. “You’re literally the worst.”

But she sits down and rests her chin on her knuckles and listens attentively as they hatch out how best to get the word out about an impromptu Philly Santa Con. Flyers. Obviously, flyers. Maybe a Facebook ad? Could they do one of those hashtag deals? It sounds stupid. It sounds instantly pathetic and Mac is riled up as Dennis deflates from the miserable conclusion that _oh god they said the words “hashtag deal” are they old? Holy shit, are they old?_

“How fast can we get suits and shit?”

“Suits for what?”

There was no sound from the door, or at the very least none that was loud enough for them to hear over their planning, and suddenly Charlie was just there, standing at the edge of the bar and setting down a brown paper sack, his name scrawled out on the side of it in a painfully neat, pristine print. Doc has clearly packed him lunch. Again.

“Santa suits,” says Dennis and gets slapped in the arm by Dee. “What?”

“Oh yeah?” Charlie scratches under his chin in thought, nodding to himself. “Yeah, okay okay okay. Santa Suits. You’re kinda pushing it, I mean. Christmas is in two days. Whadya need Santa suits for?”

“Santa Con.” Again, another slap and Dennis turns on her. “ _What_ , Dee?” But she just rolls her eyes and huffs in response.

“Oh shit, yeah? That thing they do up in New York?”

“Exactly that thing they do up in New York. How do you know about that?”

“I’m not stupid, guys. I know a thing.”

Charlie laughs quietly to himself and unrolls the paper bag, fishing out a sandwich cut into a neat triangle. God, Doc cuts his sandwiches? Is that pathetic? Is it nice? Is it both? It feels like both.

“But, yeah, I think we can get some suits. When do you need them?”

It looks like peanut butter and jelly. And, like, really decent bread. The good kind. And, actually, it is kinda lunch time. They watch him eat a moment, Charlie tearing off a corner, his cheek puffy, and he finally looks up, tweaking an eyebrow up to fluffy hair.

“Guys?”

\---

After lunch, they meet up with a guy Frank knows who sets them up with three Santa Suits and a little red number for Dee. Frank thanks the guy, who kisses Frank’s cheeks twice, counts his money, and disappears into a building that is marked as a deli, but they all have a pretty sneaking suspicion that a deli that place ain’t.

“Alright, you guys put on the suits, I’ll go back to the bar,” Charlie starts, tapping his fingers as he ticks off a mental checklist. “And we’ll be all set.”

“I’m not putting that thing on,” Frank says, tossing the third red suit over to Charlie. Charlie grabs it, so it doesn’t end up on the ground, and holds it back out.

“Well, I’m not putting it on either. This is your guys’s plan, not mine.”

“Santa’s an old fat man,” Frank says. “I’m not going to be associated with some old kiddie twiddler schlub.”

“Santa’s not...Jesus.”

Mac nearly slaps his face as he puts the giant red coat over his white tank top. The suspenders are hanging off and he has to tighten them to fit better. But he looks good. Just needs a beard and he’d be a great stand in for a mall Santa. Maybe no gut, but there’s mass. Oh, there’s definitely mass. Mac almost flexes as Charlie takes an unconscious step backwards, still holding out the suit.

“Charlie, just put it on, dude. You can wear it back at the bar.”

“I’m not putting it on,” Charlie says firmly. He almost drops it, but it’s clear he doesn’t want it to get dirty. “Frank, you got this one for you, man. Put it on so I can get back to Paddy’s. I wanna get the snowman set up before people show up.”

“Snow man?”

“ _I’m_ not putting it on,” Frank says again, stepping away. “I already said, I’m not doing it. You’re doing it.”

“I don’t _want_ to,” Charlie explains.

“Oh my god,” Mac finally snaps, and grabs the suit out of Charlie’s hands. “I’ll take it back to the bar. Dennis? Dee? Can you guys start doing the walk and pass out the flyers and shit and I’ll meet you down town?”

“Did you seriously have to put the flyers in these buckets?” Dee asks, holding up a red metal pail and crossing her ankles like she has to pee or she’s trying to keep her nude-stocking-covered legs warm in the Philly winter chill.

“Uh, yes?” Mac answers, like it’s the most obvious thing. “You’ve seen all the Santas on the sidewalks. They all have those buckets.”

“Yeah, because they’re those Salvation Army Santas, dipshit,” Dennis says, rolling his eyes so hard, Mac has to wonder how that doesn’t hurt.

“Uh…. So?”

“Screw this,” Dennis mutters and taps Dee. “We’re losing daylight. Let’s just do this.”

The Reynolds take off first as Frank all but throws his hands in the air. “I’m out,” he says, to nobody’s benefit, and takes off in the opposite direction, leaving Charlie and Mac on the sidewalk. Charlie hugs his arms tight to his chest, wearing a dark gray sweater that Mac doesn’t recognize. Another little number Doc must’ve gotten for him as an early Christmas present. It’s new. It’s nice. It’s not nearly warm enough and Mac imagines what that argument looked like between them. He bets it was like sugary sweet how much Doc cares that Charlie is warm. Mac cares too! Mac is here, now, looking at Charlie shivering in his dark sweater and his jeans and caring as shit about it! His ears are pink. Hell, his nose is pink, and he would be a better mall-Santa stand-in, if they just color his beard white.

“Dude,” Mac says, fishing around the extra suit in his arms. He gives up quickly, pulls his own hat off his head, and plops it down on Charlie’s, who almost jerks his head out of the way. “You’re gonna freeze.”

Charlie looks like he wants to protest, but he glances up, his face bubbling up to a happy, grateful grin and he bumps his shoulder into Mac’s.

“Thanks, man.”

“No sweat.”

“So, like…what’s this actually about?” Charlie asks and they start walking together back towards the bar.

Another life and they might have even held hands and it’s a strange, sort’ve stupid thought that makes them both grin at nearly the exact same time, even if neither of them are sure why the other is smiling. And the thought passes. A car almost runs Charlie over, which forces him to raise his fists and yell a string of weird violent profanities at the driver, chasing him into the street before he’s pulled back and they continue on their way, same as before.

“Okay, _okay_! Fine, so I won’t eat his spleen,” Charlie says, and tugs his shoulder out of Mac’s light grasp. “You still didn’t answer my question, dude.”

“What question?”

“This!” Charlie motions towards all of Mac, the missing hat, the jacket, the pants, the extra suit in his arms. “Santa Con thing. Like, seriously? They do that back in the beginning of the month. This is, like, really late for this sort’ve thing. And shouldn’t you be, I dunno, taking your mom out to mass and all that shit?”

“Yeah, I’m gonna do that on Christmas, Charlie,” Mac answers, stretching his neck out. “Obviously.”

"Obviously, right," Charlie says. Mac eyes him, the way he holds himself, head down, kicking the sidewalk.

"Are you going to take your mom out too?"

"I'll have dinner with her or something," Charlie says with a shrug.

"You cool with the whole...." Mac doesn't want to bring up the Santa issue. He does, but he doesn't want Charlie to fly off the handle and bite his neck open.

"I'm cool," Charlie insists. "I just don't wanna wear the suit. Is that a problem?"

"No, man, it's cool. I'm just checking," says Mac quickly. "So. Yeah."

"Yeah."

"Yeah." Mac huffs, wondering why there's an awkward silence now. "Yeah. Dinner with moms, right?"

"Right," says Charlie and kicks the ground again. “After we throw rocks at the trains?”

Charlie’s voice is small and light, which is comparatively strange when he had just been screeching at the car not three seconds ago. He asks it like he’s not so sure himself. Like this might actually be the year that they break tradition. That things have evolved and so much has changed, and different people mean different things to them now. Do they have time?

“Will Doc let you?” Mac shoots back, looking at one of the street signs instead of his friend’s face.

“He’s not my _keeper_ ,” Charlie answers, his cheerful, happy face souring.

“He’s not?” Mac feels like he should stop, but the words are already bubbling up, some unfriendly feeling that has been dogging him all day finally taking form in the back of his head. “He makes you lunches, like, _all_ the time.”

“You still skin Dennis’s apples, even though he doesn’t ask you to anymore!”

“The skin is where the toxins are! The skin – okay, that’s different!”

“How is that different?” Charlie demands. “Seriously. How?”

“It’s different!”

“ _How_?”

“I’ve always done that. Just like I check the peaches for ripeness and I get the correct bleach for the apartment and—”

“Dude, did he say anything after you wrote the letter or not?”

Mac’s fists make tight wads of the Santa suit, high-pile velvet sticking to his sweaty skin. Charlie should’ve just put it on. A, he’d be warmer, and two, it made more sense when they were all wearing them. Santa Con was a quick scheme not to get Paddy’s absurdly-needed business. Not even to get into the spirit of the season, which felt weird this year. Which felt off and forgotten and just not as important as it had been in the past. Which was true of every year after high school and every year Mac has to find a way to wrangle it back together and pretend, like, even a little, that it’s worth it.

Santa Con was proposed because Dennis was cranky about a cut on his hand. It was because Dennis was bored. It was because of Dennis….

“Okay, I wrote the letter,” Mac starts and Charlie throws his hands up in the air, already guessing the next part of Mac’s sentence. “Now, hold up, okay, but I did. I did write it, okay, but we never agreed I was actually going to—”

“That’s the whole point, Mac!”

“Oh, right? Great, yeah, a _letter._ Cause you know so much about—”

“Fuck you,” Charlie snaps. He grabs the hat and yanks it off, chucking it at Mac’s chest. Mac is just able to catch it before it falls to the dirty sidewalk. For a second, they are both relieved. It’s stupid and it is definitely childish, but there’s something inherently sacred about Santa’s hat and watching it fall made them gasp. But Mac saves the day, doesn’t he? He snatches it up and it’s fine. It’s all fine.

And then Charlie tenses up his shoulders and slaps his hands over his freshly-freed and freshly-cold ears. “I’m going back to the bar. I’m gonna build a goddamn snowman for your stupid little Christmas shindig and that’s it. Fuck you. Fuck your costume. Fuck your letter.”

“Charlie,” Mac calls out, but Charlie is already stomping down the sidewalk. Mac follows. He’s going to the bar anyways, it’s not like he’s not going to follow, but when he starts to catch up, Charlie turns, glares at him, and takes off running. With his arms laden by the second suit, it just seems pointless to try and pursue him. He’ll catch up to him back at the bar. That’s all he can really do.

\---

Another person drops a quarter into Dennis’s bucket while they walk. He thrusts a flyer at them, but they decline, and he sighs, staring up at the silver sky. It’s not exactly going to snow with those clouds, but it’s damn cold. He checks Dee beside him, who is doing her best not to shiver too badly while they walk.

“Okay, but can I say? This is stupid,” Dennis finally blurts out, getting a dollar-twenty-five in his bucket from some lady with a gaudy cross and a wink from her pug-ugly face. Dennis does his best not to scowl, pinching his mouth shut in some approximation of a smile. He’s wearing a Santa suit for Christ’s sake. He can’t be a total dick. He _wants_ to be a total dick. But he can’t. “Dee? Nobody’s taking the goddamn flyers.”

“Yeah?” Dee hands one to guy in a brown leather jacket. He hums and folds the flyer in his pocket without looking at it, which is better than putting it right in the garbage. “Cause they’re taking mine. So. Don’t know what you’re doing wrong there.”

“Merry Christmas and god bless,” says a short old man as he puts some more money in Dennis’s bucket. Dennis lifts his eyebrows, still exasperated.

“Yeah, thanks, guy!” He waves, turning them back down the sidewalk. “Jesus Christ, Dee, they really _do_ think we’re part of the Salvation Army.”

“But we don’t have the bell.”

“Yeah, or the sign. People are idiots.”

Another stranger, this one a young mom with two brats in tow, came to put money in Dennis’s pale. He blocks her hand, pulls the bucket away, and shoves a flyer at her in the same breath.

“No, no, you need that money, lady,” he says promptly. “Get a baby sitter and do this thing instead.”

The woman walks away, confused, turning the flyer over in her hands. His suspicions of her tossing the flyer away are sustained when she crumples it and immediately chucks it into an overstuffed trash can on her route. Dennis flaps his arms up in bewilderment.

“This is stupid!”

Dee tips his bucket near her and peers inside. “No,” she says, folding her own flyers up and putting them in the trash after the first one. “This is free money. Hey, we _should_ get a bell.”

“I’m not pretending to be part of the goddamn _Salvation Army_.”

“Why?”

“Because it’s stupid.”

“Mm, is it ten bucks stupid?”

Dennis gapes and turns the bucket towards him to see the crumpled ten amongst the other coins and dollars. He looks up, expecting to see someone with a knowing grin or some stupid shit watching him, waiting to be found out for their “good deed,” but there’s nobody. There’s just people walking by, going about their business.

“I’m gonna get a bell,” Dee says, and reaches in to take the money out of Dennis’s bucket. He snags her hand before she takes it. “Hey.”

“What? That’s mine.”

“Yeah? Well, I’m not getting any cause I’m not freakin’ Santa, Dennis. I’m just….” Dee pursed her lips and looked down at herself, jutting out one of her hips. “I’m Sexy Mrs. Clause.”

“Gross.”

“Oh whatever, you know what I mean.”

“I do not,” Dennis says as he rolls his eyes and shoves the money at Dee. Nobody had bothered to give him anymore while they were squabbling. It was ruining his business. “Just. Go. Go, harpy, begone from my sight. Be—”

Dee fists the cash and flips Dennis the bird as she backs away, heading somewhere to try and get a bell. Wherever the fuck _that_ was going to come from.

But, a bonus at her leaving. Dennis notes that more people are coming up to him, wishing him a Merry Christmas, dropping money into his bucket without prompting. They all seem really nice and the only ones that aren’t nice know what’s up about the shitbags behind SA. He doesn’t blame them. He commiserates with them. He nudges them along and tells them not to be dicks because kids are nearby and they don’t need to see Santa getting harassed by a pair of millennials in tight jeans and stripes scarves speaking the goddamn truth, sure, but not like that, man. Quieter. Subtler. Move along, move along. Dennis waves them away and has another nice old lady tell him he’s doing the Lord’s work and, yeah, it’s a giant pile of horse shit, but he feels good about it all the same.

And then, out of nowhere, there arose _such_ a _clamor_ ….

“Oh, you sonuvabitch,” Dennis mutters to himself.

“Pardon?” asks the lady about to give him five whole bucks just for standing out on the sidewalk. God, people are idiots. But Dennis shushes her and steps aside to see what the hell is coming his way.

Everybody hears the distinct _clang-ca-clang-ca-clang_ of a bell bouncing around in one Dee Reynold’s giant claw hand. She has no bounce in her step, no jaunty little jig, but she saunters up the sidewalk opposite of Dennis’s corner, ringing an actual silver hand bell. Like, kinda impressive that she found one. But kinda the worst also because it’s loud, yes, but it’s drawing attention to _her_ and not to _him_ and now suddenly people are taking their “business” over there.

He has to admit. Goddamn bell really worked.

“Oh,” Dennis mutters, glaring daggers across the street at Dee, who smiles happily as someone gives her a measly quarter, thinks better, and finds _more_ goddamn money in his pocket. Dennis all but snarls, “It’s on.”

\---

“Charlie?” Mac pushes into the bar and dumps the extra suit onto one of the stools. He stomps his feet to get some feeling and warmth back into them, what with the fine layer of slushy snow outside. Not pretty. Not good for anything. Just cold and miserable and ugly and cold. Mac stomps again and rubs his hands together, breathing over the top of them. “Charlie? Man, you in here or what?”

“Or what!”

The reply comes from the back, next to the office where they keep everything stored, from Budweiser and Coors shipments to the peanuts and shit they try to lay out on the bar to the busted ass freezer for ice. Mac ducks his head in some accidental subservient display before he juts his chin up, neck stretched, and walks in on Charlie sitting on the floor in the sweater and a pair of boxers.

“Uh…?”

Charlie looks up. He continues packing the body if a malformed snowman and thumbs some pretzels into his mouth, dusting leftover salt onto the snowman. He grins and his bearded cheeks puff up, even if it’s deliberately clear he’s so _not_ smiling with his eyes.

“Hey, Mac,” Charlie says, thumping the side of the snowman’s body. “What’s _up_ , man?”

“Dude.”

And, finally, Charlie relents by tilting his head just as Mac pinches the bridge of his nose. He makes a little “huh,” sound, patting snow and digging out from a bucket he must’ve dragged through the busted freezer.

“ _Dude_ ,” Mac says more pointedly this time. “Where are your pants?”

Charlie finally looks down and almost laughs. He rolls his eyes instead and stands up to place one odd snowball atop another, beginning to form a halfway decent snowman.

“Oh, yeah, no. They got soaked when I tried the ice maker, so. I didn’t wanna look like I pissed myself, obviously.”

“Obviously,” Mac repeats, even though it’s so stupid.

“Obviously. And I don’t have a second pair here, so I’m letting them dry over the heater.” Charlie points at his jeans hanging off a pipe over one of Paddy’s ancient radiators just near the office. Sure enough, they have a clear wet mark right down the center, slowly drying.

“Isn’t your ass cold from sitting in ice?”

“Isn’t you face cold from being a dick?”

“What?”

Charlie shrugs, dumping the rest of the bucket onto the floor and crouches down into the fake snow as he tries to pack it together into something for the head. He’s set aside some actual coal—and where the hell he got _that_ from, Mac doesn’t know—along with a little pipe and his own scarf. Mac eyes the additions, reaches down, and snatches the pipe. He recognizes as one of those shitty little pipes they used to use to smoke back in high school. For whatever reason, the fact that Charlie held onto it doesn’t surprise him as much as the fucking chunks of coal do. Charlie glances up just as Mac pops the end into his mouth and bites down, holding it just so.

“Yeah,” Charlie says, answering an unasked question Mac can’t even begin to guess at. “You look stupid, man.”

“Fuck you,” Mac says fondly and ducks as a tiny snowball is thrown at his head. He squats and scoops up some of the gross slush off Paddy’s floor, tamps it together, and chucks it at Charlie, who catches it clean on the shoulder. And they laugh. They laugh so fucking hard. They spill towards each other and grab each other’s arms and just laugh until they feel sick.

 ---

Dee’s bell is winning. It’s taking the toll. It’s taking the _cake_. The _cash_. It’s just. It’s winning! And Dennis keeps watching as more people plop their loose change and their crumpled bills into her red bucket and the way she salutes him with that stupid _fucking_ bell and Dennis just sees red.

It’s obviously, really, if he looks at it objectively. Right? People are stupid and they’re drawn to the sound. And they have this objectively “hot” piece of meat dressed up in a little Eartha Kitt Santa dress number and yeah, it’s Dee so it’s disgusting, but it has the right cut and the right fringe and it’s supposed to be sexy, so people are just falling for it because they don’t see any better option.

Dennis decides, right as some slob with a greasy face and fucking fry-smelling fingers tries and gives him three pennies— _pennies!—_ that he’s going to give them a better option.

The speaker on his phone is shitty, but he just needs it to be loud enough to find a rhythm. He sets it down next to his bucket, widening his stance and starting to gyrate his hips in an aggressive figure 8. He tucks his hands into the Santa suit and starts unbuttoning his shirt, taking his time when he locks eyes with a lady on his side of the street. She looks amused, he’s sure. He’s so certain that wide-eyed horror is definitely the horror of her own lust for this _specimen_. Dennis bites the tip of his tongue and winks at her. Too much, apparently, because she scoffs and walks away. He doesn’t mind. He’s always had to cast a wide net. He just wants to get more money than Dee and has no shame in how he’s about to do it.

The air is cold as shit as it hits Dennis’s naked chest, but he doesn’t mind. He shoves his arms back into the warm sleeves of his Santa coat and continues dancing to the music. It isn’t long before some guy tosses a few quarters his way.

“Merry Christmas,” he calls out, air-humping his way over the little space he has made for himself on the sidewalk.

“And a happy New Year, honey,” the man calls out. Dennis is only annoyed that the man winks because Dennis has been winking and he doesn’t need any more goddamn competition.

It isn’t long before he has a little crowd. They stay for the performance and Dennis tries his best not to pointedly angle towards the bucket, but finds he has to when some guy tries to put the money in his pants instead. He doesn’t care, because it’s twenty bucks instead of singles and hell yeah, he’s gotta be beating Dee by now, right?

Sure enough, Dee is just standing there, mouth agape, before she catches Dennis looking and starts hammering on the bell. Really jerking it around. Pa _thetic_. She points and Dennis mouths _oh, me?_ before he licks his fingers, one at a time, and flips her off. He gyrates down, almost touching his knees to the sidewalk, when he feels a tap on his shoulder, and spins to tell the dude, “You gotta just put it in the bucket, sir, it’s not—oh. Uh…officer.”

A policeman stands behind Dennis, tall as a goddamn monument with a stern face and sterner posture. He looks weary but a hell of a lot warmer in a black hat and coat. He keeps his hands on his hips before he gestures around them.

“Sir, you can’t be doing this out here,” he says. Dennis fumbles to snatch his phone off the ground, awkwardly poking it until it finally stops playing in the middle of a goddamn AWOL song.

“No, right, of course,” Dennis says quickly, shrugs, and drops his phone into his pocket. He then grabs the edges of his coat and draws it over his chest to cover himself. “Just a little harmless, uh, dancing. Nothing serious, you know how it goes.”

The policeman sighs, looking around them and noting the flyers sticking out of the trash can nearby. He plucks one out and reads it over before he lifts an eyebrow at Dennis’s outfit.

“Sir, were you attempting to hand out flyers for this event?”

“What?” Dennis scoffs. “No. No way.”

“Because there is a 500$ fee for registering pub crawls that needs to be submitted 60 days in advance.”

“Yeah, no, I know.” Dennis hugs his coat somehow even closer. “That’s why I wasn’t…I know, man. I’m not even a part of that. You can’t just, y’know, like do a grassroots pub crawl. That would be absurd, firstly, and secondly—”

“Are you impersonating Santa to scam people out of money?” the officer asks, looking up from the flyer.

“Well. Well, aren’t we _all_ impersonating Santa when we put on the suit? Isn’t it integral to spreading that Christmas cheer?”

“Not how you were doing it,” the policeman comments. “I’m gonna have to give you a ticket for disorderly conduct.”

“What?” Dennis shrieks.

“There ain’t no way Santa should be dancing like you did out on the street for kids to see.”

“Officer—”

But he has already pulled out his notebook and is scribbling information down. Dennis huffs, glancing over across the street, only to see that Dee has thoroughly booked it the hell out of there. Perfect.

\---

Dee’s made sure to put the money from the bucket into her car before she goes into Paddy’s to the sound of Charlie and Mac laughing their asses off. It makes her smile just by simply hearing it, and she goes towards the back to find them on the floor. She assumes, straight away, they have to be drunk. No bottles around, but Mac has a pipe in his mouth, so maybe they’re just high.

“Hey, guys,” she says, hands on her hips as she surveys them.

“Dee!” they chime in unison and wave her in.

“We’re building a snowman,” Charlie says, motioning at his little creation. She says nothing of the fact that he’s down to his gray sweatshirt and boxers. He’s lounging back on Mac, who is digging holes out of the torso of the half-formed snowman.

“I’m telling you, it’ll make a great cooler for beers. Really festive shit.”

“Uh, yeah, man,” Dee says, keeping near the entrance. “Probably. How long have you two been here?”

They look at each other and shrug. Mac flaps his hand and Charlie finally sits up, tugging the Santa hat back off Mac’s head and pulling it firmly down onto his own. Mac doesn’t even fight him for it.

“Come join us,” he says, waving Dee closer.

“I mean, hold on,” she says, tips her hands up, and disappears, only to return with nearly eight bottles carefully clutched between her fingers. She shoves them down into the holes Mac dug out, takes two out, and twists them open before she hands them to Mac and Charlie. She takes a third and they all clink their bottles together before downing them.

She doesn’t sit because she’s in a skirt and because the floor looks cold and damp from the melting ice. But they all share a moment of just laughing at each other and the stupid shit they pulled today. She’s already retelling how Dennis had been an absolute buffoon when he comes in looking sour as day old milk.

“Oh hey, thanks,” he says to Dee straight away, unwinding his scarf around his neck. At some point he had gone off to button his shirt back up, but he still has the Santa suit because, well, it _is_ really nice and warm. “Thanks for just leaving me to fend for myself, sis. Real treat there. I have to go to court!”

“That was your fault for humping the sidewalk, amirite?” she asks and clinks her bottles Charlie and Mac again.

“Real mature. _Real_ mature,” Dennis says, but he accepts a bottle all the same and drags a chair in to sit on. “What’re you two even doing?”

“Building a snowman,” they answer again and laugh with that sort’ve manic, breathless laugh that happens when two friends find anything and everything endlessly funny; a sort’ve euphoria that makes one drunk. Added with the actual alcohol that helps make one actually drunk. It is a perfect storm. And they laugh. And they just laugh so, so hard. And it’s just infectious enough to make the Reynolds twins laugh too, so they don’t hear Frank come in from the back entrance. They only jump when he steals Dennis’s hat.

“Frank?” Dennis yells, holding his empty head. “What the hell? Where’d you come from?”

“Strip club,” Frank answers with an easy calm, fetching one of the bottles out of the decapitated snowman. “Chicks dig the Santa thing. Figured I’d take that suit now. What’re you all doing in here?”

“Scamming idiots for cash they were going to give to the Salvation Army,” says Dee.

“Getting a goddamn ticket for a little harmless dance routine,” says Dennis.

“Snowman,” Charlie and Mac say and hug each other as they laugh again.

Frank eyes them all and finally shrugs, his eyebrows hiking up to his thin hairline. “Well, whatever. Looks like fun. You mind if I join in and recoup before I head back?”

Maybe it’s a little bit of that Christmas spirit that buries hatchets and smooths out old sores and, for a little bit, they just stay in their storage room, sharing beers and watching Charlie and Mac laugh and ask Dennis what the hell was going through his head as he counts his earnings from his bucket.

“Yeah, screw you guys, seriously,” Dennis says, slapping Mac’s hand away from the bucket. “I’m not sharing, okay, especially if I have to pay a ticket. Which is _stupid_.”

“Contest it,” Frank says casually.

“Oh, I _will_ ,” Dennis answers.

Charlie’s nearly passed out by the time his pocket buzzes. He sits up blearily, squints at the screen for a moment too long, and hefts himself up. “Doc,” he mutters with a little sleepy smile, patting his thighs with one empty hand while the other holds a half-finished beer. He hands the beer to Dee and fetches his pants off the pipe, jumping into them. “I’ll see you guys later,” he calls out, his voice rougher than usual from shouting and laughing and sleeping.

“See ya later, buddy,” they answer, raising a bottle to him as he stumbles out to head home. They imagine him climbing into Doc's car, probably getting a little tsk, a little scold at his current state with his red cheeks and his damp clothes because he seriously had been  _laying_ on that snowman and his sweatshirt on the back is soaked. He probably barely defends himself, apologizes while smiling too big, still too happy with how the evening has gone, and he probably kisses Doc mid-rant and tells him he just wants to get home, get undressed, brush their teeth, and head to bed. They probably cuddle under their blankets. It probably smells great. They probably kiss until they're too sleepy and pass out all nose-to-nose. All super cute and sweet. It's probably all warm and loving and great. It's probably wonderful.

 _Fuck Charlie for having wonderful_ , Mac thinks, but feels guilty for thinking it and is, honestly, pretty happy for his friend.

“Yeah, I’m gonna head back to the strip club. I bet they’ve switched out the rotation,” Frank says, clapping his hands together. “Dee? You wanna come?”

“What? No. Why?” Dee asks and Frank shrugs with an “uhn-oh.” She sighs heavily and rolls her eyes. “Yeah, fine. Why not? I wouldn’t wanna hang out with these idiots anyways.”

“Yeah, real nice, Dee,” Mac says, but he’s sort’ve relieved to have her leave too. Without Charlie, it feels, well, not weird. But not great. Not perfect. If they left, it would be kinda sort’ve perfect.

Mac and Dennis watch them leave and can just barely hear Dee start to scream and curse when she discovers her car has been stolen. There’s shards of broken glass left in the spot where it had been parked.

“Which one was this one?” Mac asks from the ground, twisting himself to get a better angle of Dennis’s face. He’s blinking quickly, annoyed at the sounds, and tipping back his bottle for four greedy gulps.

“I don’t even know, man,” Dennis finally answers. “Some Hyundai? I dunno.”

“Yeah,” Mac says and leans back against the snowman again. He reaches into his pocket, where a piece of paper is folded over too many times, a little hard bundle against his leg. He’s been carrying it around since he wrote it, too afraid to leave it somewhere where anybody can find it. He’s rubbed the top of it until it’s worn out to newspaper print grade flimsiness. His hand begins to get really damp, and he pulls it back out, leaving the paper inside. “Yeah,” he says again. “Sorry about the whole ticket thing, man.”

“Don’t even sweat it,” Dennis says. He sounds genuine. There’s a little rustle sound and, with a little grunt that betrays how worn out he is, he sits down in the puddle next to Mac.

“You feeling better?” Mac asks, touching Dennis’s hand and looking at the little cut on his knuckle. Dennis doesn’t even pull back.

“Yeah. Pretty much,” Dennis says. He looks at the cut too, at Mac’s hand covering it, and tips his bottle back. “Thanks, man.”

“Any time.”

Mac feels his stomach start to flip and raises an empty beer bottle up, looking into the neck with disappointment. Dennis chuckles and reaches over, tapping his bottle against the green glass. He puts his beer bottle in Mac’s lap and rests his head on Mac’s shoulder, closing his eyes.

“Seriously, though. Thanks.”

He wonders if he should get out that stupid letter or he can try to kiss Dennis now or if he should just drink Dennis’s beer down or if he should do nothing or if there are such things as Christmas miracles or if he’s an idiot or if—

“Dude, let’s just go home, okay? I’m not sitting in this ice puddle all night.”

“Okay.”

“Okay?”

“Yeah, man.”

Mac blinks and looks down just as Dennis is standing up, still holding his head. He tugs him up, interlacing their fingers, and head out in the dark after locking up the bar.


End file.
